


To Raise

by wandering_gypsy_feet



Series: Defined [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 19:14:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12539212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_gypsy_feet/pseuds/wandering_gypsy_feet
Summary: To raise is to set in motion; activate or to grow or breed, care for, and promote the growth of.In which Tormund decides it's high time raise hell about Brienne by asking his friend how he got a wife in the first place, and Bran sees the next generation raised in front of him.A post 7x07 one shot, where upon reuniting at Winterfell, a new world is built.





	To Raise

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so this begins to veer very steeply into teeth rotting fluff, and I am unashamed. This will likely be the final installment-- I'm out of perspectives, I think!-- but I promise, I'm going to keep writing SanSan! 
> 
> For Bb8, who totally inspired this with an awesome review. Go forth and have some sweetness!

Tormund

“But you must tell me how you did it.” Tormund is pursuing Sandor Clegane around the courtyard, and the scarred man is fast losing his patience with the ginger one. “What did you do?” 

“A lot of things.” He growls, frowning when he sees how the armory is empty. Tormund doesn’t care in the slightest if the blacksmith isn’t there, and doesn’t care that Clegane seems annoyed by it. He has one focus. 

“Was it by killing things?” He demands. “Did you kill a wolf and skin it? Give her the pelt?” 

“Her damn sigil is a wolf, you fucking idiot.” Clegane reminds him, stomping off towards the stables. Tormund is hot on his heels. 

“A bear then.” Tormund probes, matching the tall man’s strides with ease. “Did you present her with a great beast’s hide?” 

“No.” He’s moved onto short answers now, so Tormund asks more. 

“Did you give her a sword?” 

“She’s a fucking lady!” 

“Brienne would like a sword.” 

“Brienne has a sword of the finest steel.” Clegane rolls his eyes, eyeing a young man that scurries out of his way, carrying a bale of hay. 

“What did you do?” Tormund follows him into the stables, side stepping the stable boys that scatter in front of them. “To make her love you.” 

“I don’t know.” Sandor snorts. “Ask her.” 

“I can’t.” Tormund frowns, furrowing his eyebrows. “She will tell the big woman.” 

“Maybe don’t call her the big woman.” Clegane advises, checking on the horses and their feed. 

“I want monster babies.” Tormund complains, turning to the horses and looking at them critically, as though they are the reason Brienne has been rejecting his advances. “You have one, it’s not fair.” 

“Not fair?” Clegane looks at him in disbelief over the back of one horse. “Not fair?” 

“How did you woo her?” Tormund questions him intensely. “How did you convince her to have children with you?” 

“I didn’t do shit.” Clegane looks to be caught between blushing furiously and being flat out furious. “She… She…” 

“She loves you.” Tormund narrows his eyes. “But how did you do it?” 

“I don’t know.” Clegane looks ready to rip his head off, so Tormund falls silent. This isn’t going to way he wanted it to. 

When they’d finally defeated the Night King, nearly dying in the process, they’d returned to Winterfell with the news that Arya had killed Cersei and was wearing her face. Dany and Jon— or Aegon, but they all refused to call him that and he himself had insisted on remaining Jon— had gone south, and when they’d arrived, Arya as Cersei had pretended to die a magnificent death, and so Arya began to come home. 

Now Dany and Jon rule, while Tormund works to rebuild the north, and doesn’t stray too far from Brienne of Tarth, attempting to woo her. She, however, wants nothing to do with any of it, and so he’s left going to the most unlikely of sources, the man who won over a woman against all odds. 

“How do you get married here?” He wonders aloud, as Clegane finishes inspecting the feed and rounding on Tormund in annoyance. 

“You stand in front of a fucking tree, say some fucking vows, and get on with it.” He says flatly. 

“Seems tedious.” Tormund follows him back into the yard, where they’re still trying to sort out armor and the mess of weapons that had been broken or lost in the war. “I like our way better.” 

“I don’t think she will.” Clegane mutters, tossing aside a broken helm and going through the rest. “Why does it matter?” 

“I love her.” Tormund says simply. “We will make beautiful babies.” 

“Seven hells.” Clegane rubs his forehead. “Fuck off wildling. You want to know how an old dog married such a pretty little bird? Go ask her why don’t you? She’ll know better than I how to woo a woman.” 

“Lady Sansa does not have time for me.” Tormund says it without bitterness. “And Brienne chases me off.” 

“Too right.” Clegane says approvingly. “Don’t bother my wife.” 

“Tell me how you did it.” Tormund spots Brienne across the yard and he looks after her longingly. “I must have her Clegane, I must.” 

“You’re a mad man.” Clegane looks at him with a mixture of amusement and genuine concern. “Fine. Tonight, come, talk to Sansa then. She can set you straight.” 

“You are a good man.” Tormund beams, and claps his back. Then he goes to follow Brienne, who is hastily disappearing towards the stables. Perhaps they can take a ride.

That night, after the household has eaten and most are returning to their beds, Tormund meanders up to the lord and lady’s rooms. He’s only in the hallway, but already he can hear the slightly muffled conversation of Sansa and Clegane drifting out the open door. He pauses, listening, wondering if it’s not a good time. 

“Jon will understand.” Sansa says firmly. "He knows why I won't leave the north, not even for him."

“This is his kin, his cousin—”

“She's his niece. Jon is my brother.” 

“Little bird.” Clegane sounds exasperated but not angry, so Tormund decides there’s no time like the present to enter. He strides in, not at all surprised to see the couple sitting near the fire, close enough to touch each other. 

“Tormund.” Sansa looks up and breaks into a rosy smile. Clegane grunts in acknowledgement of his presence. “Hello. Please join us.” She gestures to an empty chair. 

“My thanks.” He sits and looks them over for a moment. Sansa has discarded her formal dress and is in a looser version of it. Her hair is down, in bright waves, with only a single braid drawing it from her face. She is still pale, but the fire adds a warm glow to her cheeks, and her blue eyes sparkle with mirth, likely at the conversation she anticipates amusing her. 

Clegane sits across from her, in his boots and breeches, though his sword sits out of reach, and his armor is stored away. He looks gruff and intimidating with those scars in the dying light, except for the bundle he holds in his arms. As though she can feel Tormund’s eyes on her, a pale hand emerges from the blankets, opening and closing as though in a greeting.

Cataline Stark, even at 3 months old, likes to make her presence known. Tormund, with a smile, reaches out and offers her his thumb, which she promptly grabs in a tight grip. She stirs in Clegane’s arms and her father shoots Tormund a deadly look, his intent very clear. Do not wake her. 

“So Tormund, Sandor says you are in need of advice.” Sansa’s light voice hides her amusement well and he turns back to the pretty woman, and states his case.

“How did Clegane woo you?” 

“Woo me?” Sansa seems surprised, but not shocked. She chances a look at her husband, who is suddenly intensely busy with fixing the furs around Cataline. “He didn’t woo me in the slightest, I’m afraid. He simply protected me during a time when I needed it most, and from there, I grew to love him.” Sansa pauses, a knowing smile on her lips. “Though I suspect the lady you wish after needs no protection.” 

“No.” Tormund says proudly. Brienne would make an excellent spear wife, and she would kill a lesser man who tried to steal her. But Jon had pointedly ordered that under no circumstances was Tormund allowed to attempt to kidnap his little sister’s sworn shield, and so Tormund is stuck following stupid southern customs. 

“Lady Brienne is just that, a lady. First and foremost.” Sansa says gently and he sighs. “I don’t think that means you need despair, Tormund. I think you just need to approach it… Differently.” 

“How so?” Tormund questions and Clegane snorts loudly. Sansa, without hesitating, smacks his knee and he is silent. 

“Brienne is a fighter.” She says smoothly and Tormund nods, following. “Let her know that you value her skills, and her overall personality, but respect that she’s still a lady. You cannot expect her to jump straight into bed with you. A little gentlemanly courtesy may go a long way.” 

“Gentlemanly courtesy?” Tormund looks at her skeptically and Sansa hides a snort of laughter by ducking her head. 

“Aye,” Clegane says, rolling his eyes. “What you do when you court a lady.” 

“Give her a flower and such?” Tormund wrinkles his nose. “She doesn’t need flowers.” 

“Perhaps a saddle then, or something that may otherwise befit a lady knight.” Sansa recommends. “However, you don’t present these gifts to her. I will, in your place, so that way she need not face you should she want to reject them.” 

“What would you have gotten her?” Tormund demands of Clegane, who’s gaze flickers over to Sansa. After a quiet conversation they seem to hold with mostly half smiles and raised eyebrows, Sansa smiles and rises, walking over to the chest that sits at the end of their bed. She kneels and pulls out an intricately carved dagger, one that would easily strap to an arm, or fit inside a boot. Tormund takes it and looks at it. 

“It wasn’t his first gift, but it certainly is a favorite.” Sansa says quietly, as Tormund trails a finger over the details of wolves. 

“No use for it anymore.” Clegane says it with an air of relief and sadness. No one is concerned with fighting anymore. It's about surviving and rebuilding now. 

“Perhaps one day the little wolf-cat will have a use for it.” Tormund remarks, looking at the babe and Sansa seems rather sadly amused by that, while Clegane looks alarmed. 

“Perhaps.” She answers quietly, going to brush a kiss down on her infant daughter’s head. The girl looks to have her mother’s hair, if the shock of red stays. Clegane had knocked Tormund's ass in the snow when he proclaimed her kissed by fire. 

“So what will you do, wildling?” Clegane questions him, standing when the little girl begins to fuss. He begins to pace, still looking down at Tormund. 

“Lady Sansa was right.” He gives her a long look, and Sansa smiles warmly. “A new saddle will do nicely.” 

“Better than a wolf pelt.” Clegane mutters and Sansa pauses to give both him and Tormund an incredulous look. 

“How can I thank you?” He asks Sansa, rising and opening his arms. Sansa steps into his hug with ease. They’ve grown close in the months since they returned from war, and she was even the one who helped nurse him back to health. Brienne had too then, but now she seems unable to even look at him.

“You know Brienne is near and dear to me. All I want is to see her happy. You’d do that, if she’d let you.” Sansa draws back and gives him another one of her bright smiles. Clegane hovers over her shoulder, looking ridiculously oversized with a tiny babe in his arms. “When you have the saddle ready, bring it to me and I will present it to her and bring you her response.” 

“Thank you.” He tells her, as Sansa turns to relieve her husband of their sniffling daughter. 

“Of course.” Sansa says, before her attention is diverted to the little girl on the verge of wailing. “Ah, hush now you. Hush now, little one.” 

Clegane leans down, resting a hand on Sansa’s shoulder and gazing down at the face of his daughter. Tormund looks at them for a long moment, caught up in the smallest moment of a family. The mother and the child, the father close by. Intimate. Safe. Warm. Clegane seems to soften around his wife and child, and he looks down at them with such utter devotion and caring that it's clear he would do anything for them. Sansa seems content, as though she's nearly forgotten the horrors she's lived through and still faces some days. The child in their arms promises to be the most loved child in all of the kingdoms.

He leaves with a sudden, over powering desire for such things. 

 

  
Bran

He sits high above the courtyard and watches events unfold, in a strange parallel, as though his vision has split in two, following different tracks. Disconcerting, sure, but nothing he hasn’t mastered in his many years of being the Three-Eyed Raven. He’s accustomed to such things now. 

Bran doesn’t know if he’s simply recalling his own memory, or relying on a vision, or perhaps simply creating something all on his own. Watching fills him with something that might be regret, or longing. 

In one event, a tall man is laughing, watching as two young boys spar with wooden swords. The two boys must be near in age, one with dark hair and one with a more ruddy red color. Though near in size, they are still children, and clumsy in their movements. 

“Faster, Robb.” The man yells, good-naturedly. “Shield up, Jon.” 

The yells of the boys ring out across the courtyard as they dart and lunge through the mud, each trying unsuccessfully to smack the other with their wooden weapons. Again and again, with their father calling out corrections and advice as they go. 

Finally, the darker haired child lands a blow on the other boy, and the man whistles sharply before they can tussle over it. He claps his hands loudly, striding over to them. 

“Jon, nice job. Robb, you have to defend your blind side, do you understand me?” He rests a large hand on each of their shoulders and Jon beams, while Robb drops his head, dejected. “Chin up, son. No one becomes a great warrior without taking his losses first.” 

“One day,” A high, sweet voice asks loudly, “Will they be knights?” A red headed girl stands at the edge of the training yard, away from the muck that would dirty her dress. Ned smiles at his daughter, as she wraps her cloak a little tighter around her shoulders against the chill spring air. 

“And you will be their great Lady Sansa.” He says grandly and Sansa beams, clapping her hands in delight. 

“Can we play pretend?” She requests and both the boys groan in annoyance at that, united at once against their sister. “I will be the queen in the tower and they must rescue me from the dragons, and—” 

“We’d leave you to the dragons.” Robb says, to incite her, and it does. Sansa gasps and stomps her foot, looking beseechingly at her father. He hides his amusement with a cough and then fixes the boys with a stern look. 

“Be nice to your sister, or you’ll go a round with me.” 

“We wouldn’t last a second.” Jon declares, looking up in awe at his much larger father, and for a second, Ned seems to mull it over. 

“Let’s see if I am who I once was.” He declares, grabbing his own wooden sword. “The both of you, against me.” 

“Really?” Both boys seem a little shell shocked, and even Sansa eagerly perks up. He nods, and after the two glance at each, each go yelling towards him, brandishing swords. 

He lets them go for longer than either had imagined, easily deflecting their blows, laughing all the while. They’re only stopped when a woman’s voice, from high above, demands, 

“What in the seven heavens are you doing?”

“Ah, Cat, darling,” Ned says, holding a squirming Robb around the waist while Jon, attacking his legs, freezes. “We’re… Training.” 

“To be knights.” Sansa supplies helpfully and Catelyn, holding a small infant swaddled in furs, sighs and rolls her eyes. 

“Don’t hurt them.” She orders, sweeping away. After a second, Ned resumes attempting to wrestle his boys into submission while Sansa cheers. 

In the present day, the same scene plays out, but only with minor changes. 

A tall man is laughing, watching as two young boys spar with wooden swords, though this man has a large scar on the side of his face. The two boys are close in age, one with dark hair and one with a more ruddy red color. Though certainly large for their age, they are still children, and clumsy in their movements. 

“Faster, Rodrick.” The man yells, good-naturedly. “Shield up, Beron.” 

The yells of the boys ring out across the courtyard as they dart and lunge through the mud, each trying unsuccessfully to smack the other with their wooden weapons. Again and again, with their father calling out corrections and advice as they go. 

Finally, the darker haired child lands a blow on the other boy, and the man whistles sharply before they can tussle over it. He claps his hands loudly, striding over to them. 

“Beron, nice job. Rodrick, you have to defend your blind side, do you understand me?” He rests a large hand on each of their shoulders and Beron beams, while Rodrick drops his head, dejected. “Chin up, son. No one becomes a great warrior without taking his losses first.” 

“One day,” A high, sweet voice asks loudly with sarcasm, “Will they be knights?” A red headed girl stands in the midst of the training yard, in the muck that dirties her riding boots. Her hair is wild from her riding and Sandor smiles at his daughter, as she looks at her brothers with a critical eye.

“And you will be their great Lady Cataline.” He says grandly and she gives him an affronted look, hands on her hips. 

“Shall we play pretend?” She mocks and both the boys bristle at that, united at once against their older sister. “I will be the queen in the tower and they must rescue me from the dragons, and—” 

“We’d leave you to Aunt Dany's dragons.” Rodrick says boldly and Cataline regards him with amusement before raising her grey eyes to meeting the matching set of her father. He hides his enjoyment with a cough and then fixes the boys with a stern look. 

“Be nice to your sister, or you’ll go a round with me.” 

“We wouldn’t last a second.” Beron declares, looking up in awe at his much larger father, and for a second, Sandor seems to mull it over. 

“Let’s see if I am who I once was.” He declares, grabbing his own wooden sword. “The both of you, against me.” 

“Really?” Both boys seem a little shell shocked, and even Cataline eagerly perks up. He nods, and after the two glance at each, each go yelling towards him, brandishing swords. 

He lets them go for longer than either had imagined, easily deflecting their blows, laughing all the while. They’re only stopped when a woman’s voice, from high above, demands, 

“What in the seven heavens are you doing?”

“Ah, little bird,” Sandor says, holding a squirming Rodrick around the waist over his shoulder while Beron, attacking his legs, doubles down on his efforts. “We’re… Training.” 

“To be knights.” Cataline supplies with a tone of derision and Sansa, holding a small infant swaddled in furs, sighs and rolls her eyes. 

“Don’t hurt them.” She orders, sweeping away. After a second, Sandor resumes attempting to wrestle his boys into submission while Cataline cheers. 

Bran sees both the past and the present, and tries to soak it in. Some days he feels like a ghost, in both worlds and neither. He does not tell the Lady Stark of Winterfell what he sees. He wonders if she even remembers such a moment, so long ago, before such horrors. When she was a child and he a babe, and all they had to worry over was trying to be knights. He wonders if Sansa knows how similar the family she created is to the one she lost. He wonders if it hurts her or heals her. 

He sits and watches as his nephews are unceremoniously dropped into the mud by their father, who, panting, roars with laughter at them. The boys are good sports, going after their older sister, who squeals and runs, before managing to snatch up a sword and parry a blow from Beron. He even has a small smile as he watches them all.

Bran doesn't see the future, only the past. But he is sure the future, so similar to the past, will not play out in the same way. He hopes, certainly, that the world will leave his sister and her husband alone to raise their children.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, maybe a little sadness mixed in? Please throw a review to me on your way out (I live for those suckers) and be sure to stick around for what's coming next, aka not one shots. This has been an absolute blast, and y'all are beyond amazing. Thank you!


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